For the 1972 book, I invited the veteran s-f writer Lester del Rey to provide the literary challenge. In much of his own work, del Rey had taken iconoclastic views of conventional religious ideas, and that, pretty much as I had expected, was precisely what he did here.
We read in the Book of Joshua how the Israelite warrior Joshua, not wanting night to fall while he was in the midst of battle, cried out, “Sun, stand thou still,” and the Lord complied: “The sun stood still in the midst of heaven, and hasted not to go down about a whole day,” and Joshua was victorious. What Lester asked was what would happen if, in our own era of widespread disbelief, the same miracle were to take place: that a great leader would appear and cry out to God for a sign in the heavens so that the unbelieving should heed, and God would comply, so that “for a day and a night the Earth moved not around the Sun, neither did it rotate. And the laws of momentum were confounded.” The question he propounded to the three writers was, “What kind of world might exist were the basis of faith replaced by certain knowledge?”
I named the anthology The Day the Sun Stood Still (though of course it was the Earth that would cease to move), asked those experienced old professionals, Poul Anderson and Gordon R. Dickson, to write stories for the book, and chose to write the third one myself. They came through magnificently, Anderson with a splendid novella called “A Chapter of Revelation,” and Dickson with his very fine “Things Which Are Caesar’s.”
My own story, which I wrote in April of 1971, was “Thomas the Proclaimer,” reprinted here. At that time, I was being swept along on an irresistible tide of creative energy, which had another couple of years to run. Stories were pouring out of me as fast as I could get them down on paper: I had just finished the novel The Book of Skulls and the short story “Good News from the Vatican,” which would win a Nebula, and in a few months I would start on Dying Inside. I chose to set “Thomas the Proclaimer” at the very edge of what we later would come to call Y2K: The miracle occurs on June 6, 1999, and the story moves inexorably along to the apocalyptic end of December.
I’ve never felt that science fiction should be taken as literal prophecy, and that belief is confirmed again here. The future era that I imagined for “Thomas the Proclaimer” has, by this time, receded well into the past; we know now that neither the Sun nor the Earth stood still on June 6, 1999, and no wild-eyed hordes of religious fanatics were rampaging through our cities as December 31st approached. Nor did such events as the Children’s Crusade for Sanity, the Nine Weeks’ War, or the Night of the Lasers occur during the 1980s. But the future looked very chaotic indeed to me in 1971 as I wrote the story, and much of that chaos did unfold in one form and another in the years that followed. And though “Thomas the Proclaimer” is in no way literally prophetic, I think you will find that it quite accurately prefigured much of what would occur in the world in the generation just ended.
One
Moonlight, Starlight, Torchlight
HOW LONG WILL THIS night last? The blackness, though moon-pierced, star-pierced, torch-pierced, is dense and tangible. They are singing and chanting in the valley. Bitter smoke from their firebrands rises to the hilltop where Thomas stands, flanked by his closest followers. Fragments of old hymns dance through the trees. “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me.” “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” “Jesus, Lover of My Soul, Let Me to Thy Bosom Fly.” Thomas is the center of all attention. A kind of invisible aura surrounds his blocky, powerful figure, an unseen crackling electrical radiance. Saul Kraft, at his side, seems eclipsed and obscured, a small, fragile-looking man, overshadowed now but far from unimportant in the events of this night. “Nearer, My God, to Thee.” Thomas begins to hum the tune, then to sing. His voice, though deep and magical, the true charismatic voice, tumbles randomly from key to key: the prophet has no ear for music. Kraft smiles sourly at Thomas’ dismal sounds.
“Watchman, tell us of the night,
What its signs of promise are.
Traveler, o’er yon mountain’s height,
See that glory-beaming star!”
Ragged shouts from below. Occasional sobs and loud coughs. What is the hour? The hour is late. Thomas runs his hands through his long, tangled hair, tugging, smoothing, pulling the strands down toward his thick shoulders. The familiar gesture, beloved by the multitudes. He wonders if he should make an appearance. They are calling his name; he hears the rhythmic cries punching through the snarl of clashing hymns. Tho-mas! Tho-mas! Tho-mas! Hysteria in their voices. They want him to come forth and stretch out his arms and make the heavens move again, just as he caused them to stop. But Thomas resists that grand but hollow gesture. How easy it is to play the prophet’s part! He did not cause the heavens to stop, though, and he knows that he cannot make them move again. Not of his own will alone, at any rate.
“What time is it?” he asks.
“Quarter to ten,” Kraft tells him. Adding, after an instant’s thought: “P.M.”
So the twenty-four hours are nearly up. And still the sky hangs frozen. Well, Thomas? It this not what you asked for? Go down on your knees, you cried, and beg Him for a Sign, so that we may know He is still with us, in this our time of need. And render up to Him a great shout. And the people knelt throughout all the lands. And begged. And shouted. And the Sign was given. Why, then, this sense of foreboding? Why these fears? Surely this night will pass. Look at Kraft. Smiling serenely. Kraft has never known any doubts. Those cold eyes, those thin wide lips, the fixed expression of tranquility.
“You ought to speak to them,” Kraft says.
“I have nothing to say.”
“A few words of comfort for them.”
“Let’s see what happens, first. What can I tell them now?”
“Empty of words, Thomas? You, who have had so much to proclaim?”
Thomas shrugs. There are times when Kraft infuriates him: the little man needling him, goading, scheming, never letting up, always pushing this Crusade toward some appointed goal grasped by Kraft alone. The intensity of Kraft’s faith exhausts Thomas. Annoyed, the prophet turns away from him. Thomas sees scattered fires leaping on the horizon. Prayer meetings? Or are they riots? Peering at those distant blazes, Thomas jabs idly at the tuner of the radio before him.
“… rounding out the unprecedented span of twenty-four hours of continuous daylight in much of the Eastern Hemisphere, an endless daybreak over the Near East and an endless noon over Siberia, eastern China, the Philippines, and Indonesia. Meanwhile western Europe and the Americas remain locked in endless night …”
“… then spake Joshua to the Lord in the day when the Lord delivered up the Amorites before the children of Israel, and he said in the sight of Israel, Sun, stand thou still upon Gibeon; and thou, Moon, in the valley of Ajalon. And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until the people had avenged themselves upon their enemies. Is this not written in the book of Jasher? So the sun stood still in the midst of heaven, and hasted not to go, down about a whole day …”
“… an astonishing culmination, apparently, to the campaign led by Thomas Davidson of Reno, Nevada, known popularly as Thomas the Proclaimer. The shaggy-bearded, long-haired, self-designated Apostle of Peace brought his Crusade of Faith to a climax yesterday with the world-wide program of simultaneous prayer that appears to have been the cause of …”
“Watchman, does its beauteous ray
Aught of joy or hope foretell?
Traveler, yes; it brings the day,
Promised day of Israel.”
Kraft says sharply, “Do you hear what they’re singing, Thomas? You’ve got to speak to them. You got them into this; now they want you to tell them you’ll get them out of it.”
“Not yet, Saul.”
“You mustn’t let your moment slip by. Show them that God still speaks through you!”
“When God is ready to speak again,” Thomas says frostily, “I’ll let His words come forth. Not before.” He glares at Kraft and punches for another change of station.
“…
continued meetings in Washington, but no communiqué as yet. Meanwhile, at the United Nations …”
“… Behold, He cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see Him, and they also which pierced Him: and all kindreds of the Earth shall wail because of Him. Even so, Amen …”
“… outbreaks of looting in Caracas, Mexico City, Oakland, and Vancouver. But in the daylight half of the world, violence and other disruption has been slight, though an unconfirmed report from Moscow …”
“… and when, brethren, when did the sun cease in its course? At six in the morning, brethren, six in the morning, Jerusalem time! And on what day, brethren? Why, the sixth of June, the sixth day of the sixth month! Six—six—six! And what does Holy Writ tell us, my dearly beloved ones, in the thirteenth chapter of Revelations? That a beast shall rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy. And the Holy Book tells us the number of the beast, beloved, and the number is six hundred three score and six, wherein we see again the significant digits, six—six—six! Who then can deny that these are the last days, and that the Apocalypse must be upon us? Thus in this time of woe and fire as we sit upon this stilled planet awaiting His judgment, we must …”
“… latest observatory report confirms that no appreciable momentum effects could be detected as the Earth shifted to its present period of rotation. Scientists agree that the world’s abrupt slowing on its axis should have produced a global catastrophe leading, perhaps, to the destruction of all life. However, nothing but minor tidal disturbances have been recorded so far. Two hours ago, we interviewed Presidential Science Adviser Raymond Bartell, who made this statement:
“ ‘Calculations now show that the Earth’s period of rotation and its period of revolution have suddenly become equal; that is, the day and the year now have the same length. This locks the Earth into its present position relative to the sun, so that the side of the Earth now enjoying daylight will continue indefinitely to do so, while the other side will remain permanently in night. Other effects of the slowdown that might have been expected include the flooding of coastal areas, the collapse of most buildings, and a series of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, but none of these things seem to have happened. For the moment we have no rational explanation of all this, and I must admit it’s a great temptation to say that Thomas the Proclaimer must have managed to get his miracle, because there isn’t any other apparent way of …’ ”
“… I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the ending, saith the Lord, which is, and which was, and which is to come, the Almighty …”
With a fierce fingerthrust Thomas silences all the radio’s clamoring voices. Alpha and Omega! Apocalyptist garbage! The drivel of hysterical preachers pouring from a thousand transmitters, poisoning the air! Thomas despises all these criers of doom. None of them knows anything. No one understands. His throat fills with a turbulence of angry incoherent words, almost choking him. A coppery taste of denunciations. Kraft again urges him to speak. Thomas glowers. Why doesn’t Kraft do the speaking himself, for once? He’s a truer believer than I am. He’s the real prophet. But of course the idea is ridiculous. Kraft has no eloquence, no fire. Only ideas and visions. He’d bore everybody to splinters. Thomas succumbs. He beckons with his fingertips. “The microphone,” he mutters. “Let me have the microphone.”
Among his entourage there is fluttery excitement. “He wants the mike!” they murmur. “Give him the mike!” Much activity on the part of the technicians.
Kraft presses a plaque of cold metal into the Proclaimer’s hand. Grins, winks. “Make their hearts soar,” Kraft whispers. “Send them on a trip!” Everyone waits. In the valley the torches bob and weave; have they begun dancing down there? Overhead the pocked moon holds its corner of the sky in frosty grasp. The stars are chained to their places. Thomas draws a deep breath and lets the air travel inward, upward, surging to the recesses of his skull. He waits for the good lightheadedness to come upon him, the buoyancy that liberates his tongue. He thinks he is ready to speak. He hears the desperate chanting: “Tho-mas! Tho-mas! Tho-mas!” It is more than half a day since his last public statement. He is tense and hollow; he has fasted throughout this Day of the Sign, and of course he has not slept. No one has slept.
“Friends,” he begins. “Friends, this is Thomas.”
The amplifiers hurl his voice outward. A thousand loudspeakers drifting in the air pick up his words and they bounce across the valley, returning as jagged echoes. He hears cries, eerie shrieks; his own name ascends to him in blurry distortions. Too-mis! Too-mis! Too-mis!
“Nearly a full day has passed,” he says, “since the Lord gave us the Sign for which we asked. For us it has been a long day of darkness, and for others it has been a day of strange light, and for all of us there has been fear. But this I say to you now: BE … NOT … AFRAID. For the Lord is good and we are the Lord’s.”
Now he pauses. Not only for effect; his throat is raging. He signals furiously and Kraft, scowling, hands him a flask. Thomas takes a deep gulp of the good red wine, cool, strong. Ah. He glances at the screen beside him: the video pickup relayed from the valley. What lunacy down there! Wild-eyed, sweaty madmen, half-naked and worse, jumping up and down! Crying out his name, invoking him as though he were divine. Too-mis! Too-mis!
“There are those who tell you now,” Thomas goes on, “that the end of days is at hand, that judgment is come. They talk of apocalypses and the wrath of God. And what do I say to that? I say: BE … NOT … AFRAID. The Lord God is a God of mercy. We asked Him for a Sign, and a Sign was given. Should we not therefore rejoice? Now we may be certain of His presence and His guidance. Ignore the doomsayers. Put away your fears. We live now in God’s love!”
Thomas halts again. For the first time in his memory he has no sense of being in command of his audience. Is he reaching them at all? Is he touching the right chords? Or has he begun already to lose them? Maybe it was a mistake to let Kraft nag him into speaking so soon. He thought he was ready; maybe not. Now he sees Kraft staring at him, aghast, pantomiming the gestures of speech, silently telling him, Get with it, you’ve got to keep talking now! Thomas’ self-assurance momentarily wavers, and terror floods his soul, for he knows that if he falters at this point he may well be destroyed by the forces he has set loose. Teetering at the brink of an abyss, he searches frantically for his customary confidence. Where is that steely column of words that ordinarily rises unbidden from the depths of him? Another gulp of wine, fast. Good. Kraft, nervously rubbing hands together, essays a smile of encouragement. Thomas tugs at his hair. He pushes back his shoulders, thrusts out his chest. Be not afraid! He feels control returning after the frightening lapse. They are his, all those who listen. They have always been his. What are they shouting in the valley now? No longer his name, but some new cry. He strains to hear. Two words. What are they? De-dum! De-dum! De-dum! What? De-dum! De-dum! De-dum, too-mis, de-dum! What? What? “The sun,” Kraft says. The sun? Yes. They want the sun. “The sun! The sun! The sun!”
“The sun,” Thomas says. “Yes. This day the sun stands still, as our Sign from Him. BE NOT AFRAID! A long dawn over Jerusalem has He decreed, and a long night for us, but not so very long, and soon sped.” Thomas feels the power surging at last. Kraft nods to him, and Thomas nods back and spits a stream of wine at Kraft’s feet. He is aware of that consciousness of risk in which the joy of prophecy lies: I will bring forth what I see, and trust to God to make it real. That feeling of risk accepted, of triumph over doubt. Calmly he says, “The Day of the Sign will end in a few minutes. Once more the world will turn, and moon and stars will move across the sky. So put down your torches, and go to your homes, and offer up joyful prayers of thanksgiving to Him, for this night will pass, and dawn will come at the appointed hour.”
How do you know, Thomas? Why are you so sure?
He hands the microphone to Saul Kraft and calls for more wine. Around him are tense faces, rigid eyes, clamped jaws. Thoma
s smiles. He goes among them, slapping backs, punching shoulders, laughing, embracing, winking ribaldly, poking his fingers playfully into their ribs. Be of good cheer, ye who follow my way! Share ye not my faith in Him? He asks Kraft how he came across. Fine, Kraft says, except for that uneasy moment in the middle. Thomas slaps Kraft’s back hard enough to loosen teeth. Good old Saul. My inspiration, my counselor, my beacon. Thomas pushes his flask toward Kraft’s face. Kraft shakes his head. He is fastidious about drinking, about decorum in general, as fastidious as Thomas is disreputable. You disapprove of me, don’t you, Saul? But you need my charisma. You need my energy and my big loud voice. Too bad, Saul, that prophets aren’t as neat and housebroken as you’d like them to be. “Ten o’clock,” someone says. “It’s now been going on for twenty-four hours.”
A woman says, “The moon! Look! Didn’t the moon just start to move again?”
From Kraft: “You wouldn’t be able to see it with the naked eye. Not possibly. No way.”
“Ask Thomas! Ask him!”
One of the technicians cries, “I can feel it! The Earth is turning!”
“Look, the stars!”
“Thomas! Thomas!”
They rush to him. Thomas, benign, serene, stretching forth his huge hands to reassure them, tells them that he has felt it too. Yes. There is motion in the universe again. Perhaps the turnings of the heavenly bodies are too subtle to be detected in a single glance, perhaps an hour or more will be needed for verification, and yet he knows, he is sure, he is absolutely sure. The Lord has withdrawn His Sign. The Earth turns. “Let us sleep now,” Thomas says joyfully, “and greet the dawn in happiness.”
Two
The Dance of the Apocalyptists
IN LATE AFTERNOON EVERY day a band of Apocalyptists gathers by the stinking shore of Lake Erie to dance the sunset in. Their faces are painted with grotesque nightmare stripes; their expressions are wild; they fling themselves about in jerky, lurching steps, awkward and convulsive, the classic death-dance. Two immense golden loudspeakers, mounted like idols atop metal spikes rammed into the soggy soil, bellow abstract rhythms at them from either side. The leader of the group stands thigh-deep in the fouled waters, chanting, beckoning, directing them with short blurted cries: “People … holy people … chosen people … blessed people … persecuted people … Dance! … Dance! … The end … is near …” And they dance. Fingers shooting electrically into the air, elbows ramming empty space, knees rising high, they scramble toward the lake, withdraw, advance, withdraw, advance, three steps forward and two steps back, a will-you-won’t-you-will-you-won’t-you approach to salvation.
Sailing to Byzantium - Six Novellas Page 9